Not Gabriel, but the genius my pen*¹⁸³, inscribes upon my page the words which come:

For such a spell which is by genius taught put on new dress, for ’tis the New Year’s time*¹⁸⁴.

From evil genii keep it so concealed that it be seen by none but Solomon*¹⁸⁵.

Seek me from it, for ’tis my essence, know*¹⁸⁶. What (else) am I? A piece of skin (still) left*¹⁸⁷.

Without the ring’s inscription I’m but wax, (wax) free from both the honey and the bee*¹⁸⁸,

Till with his ring’s inscription Solomon make such form of impression as he will.

Whether the face be red or whether black*¹⁸⁹, the monarch’s scribe’s the painter (of the face)*¹⁹⁰.

If no one seek my perfume (still) my musk is store good and sufficient for my silk*¹⁹¹.

In poetry on me it has devolved to give pure gold, not gold with half alloy.

The eloquent*¹⁹² who spoke that which was fit became fatigued and fell asleep at last.

I, looper of the knots, the alchemy and bond of travellers to the village am*¹⁹³.

Of those species of verse in vogue before no one fresh fruit has given more than I*¹⁹⁴.

Though wanting in new words I have full skill to express my sense in clear and various terms*¹⁹⁵.

The skin without the fruit I think a dream; the fruit without the skin as water take*¹⁹⁶.

With all my rare and novel mode of speech, I turn not from the older excellence*¹⁹⁷.—

From thus arranging pearls there’s no result save with a measure measuring the wind*¹⁹⁸.

What is there touching gems of treasured store that I, of gems a weigher, have not weighed*¹⁹⁹?

Though many a special treasure I have oped, to the supremely pure I’ve found no key*²⁰⁰.

With all the dainties which at dawn descend, in deprecation I am still engaged*²⁰¹.

Nizāmī, your Messiah is your breath; your Tree of Mary is your learning gained*²⁰².

Since you’ve become disperser of its dates, you’ve gained good fortune, be it well with you*²⁰³!